Lua
by Wolfcryptic
Summary: It was so simple in the moonlight.
1. I See Red

Her gaze is sharp enough to cut Beca's resolve as she approaches, her strides smooth and confident. Her defeat did nothing to waver how she holds herself, that is apparent. With each step she takes, Beca feels the glass in her hand slicken, sweat pricking at her palms. It makes her wish she had a chance to rub them on her jeans, but she is being watched and she stays in her current position, leaning against the bar. Does she look casual enough? Relaxed? She doesn't feel it.

"Little mouse," the Kommissar greets and Beca places her liquor on the bar, afraid it is at an even higher risk of winding up on the floor now the German is closer. She's so tall in her heels and Beca feels her stomach tilt as much as her neck as meets eyes blue enough to be a piece of the sky. They are dark. Clouded.

"My proper title is World Champion, thank you," she manages, wishing to pat herself on the back for sounding partially suave. Kommissar chuckles and Beca is not ready for the sound. Just as quickly as she congratulated herself, Beca berates herself as she says, "Your laugh is so wonderful."

"At least you are kind to those you defeat. In your place, I would be, what do you call it...rubbing it in? I suppose I misjudged you. I'm not so easily surprised, but you have done it. Glückwünsche."

"Oh, it's cool. Most people misjudge me. They see me and think I'm a bitter hipster, but I'm just one-hundred percent bitter." She laughs at her own joke, the nervousness only becoming more vicious. Kommissar watches her without remark and pulls out a wallet from her tight pants. How will she ever get them off? Beca has some ideas...

"Let me buy you a drink, to celebrate what I begrudgingly admit is a well-earned victory."

"Uh...sure."

Beca decides not to mention her half-finished glass and turns to order something, but Kommissar is already handing her a shot of tequila. She is aware that she has plans tomorrow morning and shouldn't drink too heavily, but the German is holding out the shot and she jumps at the chance to feel her skin for just a second. Their fingers brush. Soft.

"Thanks." She gulps the shot and flinches, but the burn subsides as she sees Kommissar down her own shot swiftly. Her neck is exposed and the alcohol hits Beca much deeper than she expects. Or maybe that was something else. A tightening in her stomach, maybe lower, twists and heaves, as Kommissar drinks. Her head falls, eyes suddenly brighter, a smirk twisting her lips as she waves down the bartender and buys another round.

At some point, Beca remembers Kommissar's arm coiling around her shoulders, hip bumping her waist. Such long legs. A warm body presses into her and her head spins as much as the room does. She may have danced. Her friends are dots on a wavering horizon and she is leaving, the heavy warmth at her side dragging her, coaxing her. Somewhere in the haze of the night, there is more warmth, heat, burning, and the faint scent of cinnamon follows her into the morning.

* * *

The throbbing in Beca's skull is a metronome topped with a hammer, slamming down rhythmically, painfully. She groans into her pillow and shifts, only to notice then that there's something on top of her. Her eyes snap open as she realises that she has no shirt on and there is only bare skin meeting bare skin. Well, shit. A splitting headache and a body in her bed could only mean she had gotten very wasted and done something very bad. She is facing a window, overlooking Copenhagen. But this is not her room. She doesn't recognise the angle of the view, or the decor. That suitcase isn't hers. She sees the clothes strewn about wildly and is daring enough to try and slip out from under the arm she feels around her.

No such luck. As she moves, the hold tightens and her ear is met with a grunt. An electric pulse erupts in her stomach and she takes in a breath, somehow recognising the sound. She had heard it a lot last night, but that is all she can remember. Deciding to be bold, Beca rolls over and finds Kommissar next to her, just as naked as she is and still thankfully asleep.

Beca lifts the blanket and shamelessly scans over the woman's body. She really is flawless. Before she can stop herself, Beca says, "Fuck." The startled curse stirs Kommissar and she opens her eyes. Beca's heart races. She messed up. She should've rolled out of bed, gathered her clothes and left. She could've avoided the German for the rest of her trip, avoided this entire situation, but her lecherous impulses had put her right here, right under a heavily toned arm, right under the satisfied gaze of a very pampered cat.

"Good morning, mouse," Kommissar says, her voice husky and her smile wide. "It would appear we have done something unspeakably naughty."

"Fuck me," is all Beca grumbles. She feels her face go red as she quickly untangles herself from the other woman and reaches for her...ripped shirt. How did it rip? Was Kommissar that desperate to get her naked?

"I believe that already happened."

"Jeez, did you plan this or something? You seem way too proud," Beca says, throwing her shirt at Kommissar. She misses and it lands on the carpet near her wallet.

"You may not think it the truth, but I only wished to have fun last night. Had I not been in a drunken stupor, I would most definitely not have taken advantage of you. I'm not like that, mouse, you must know. I only woke up with a smile because it is not every day I find such a beautiful woman in my bed. I apologise."

"Beautiful? Me? Have you seen your abs? Steel isn't even that firm, God," Beca says as she tugs on her pants, nearly tripping in the process. Her head hurts too much to absorb all of this. She snatches her shirt from its misfired landing.

"Are you okay, Beca?"

"No! I have a boyfriend! I've never been with a woman! Shit, fuck, I was meant to meet the Bellas, like, two hours ago! I can't even-" Beca struggles to put her shirt on, and soon her frustrated ranting dissolves into sobbing. "I fucked up," she cries from within the confines of her tangled shirt.

Kommissar stands from the bed, the blanket falling. She helps Beca put her shirt on, fingering the tear up the side. "I can give you another shirt."

"Don't touch me," Beca snaps, pulling away and collecting the rest of her things.

She storms out of the room, gradually working her way out of the hotel and onto the busy street. She has no idea how she got here, or how far her own hotel is, so she hopes Google Maps can help her find her way back, but as she reaches for her phone, she finds she had not put it in her pocket like she had thought. She must've tossed it somewhere out of sight last night.

A tap on her shoulder turns her around and there is Kommissar, disheveled and grim and still somehow so tall even without shoes on. It's almost odd to see her in clothes that aren't black. She holds out Beca's phone with a frown.

"I'm sorry," she says. She then produces a dark cardigan and she drapes it over Beca's shoulders. It covers the damage done to her shirt and is too long for her, but it is a gesture the Bella uncomfortably accepts. Without another word, Kommissar turns and goes back into the hotel. Beca watches her and feels tears sting her eyes once more.

Kommissar won in the end.

* * *

 **AN: This may be continued**


	2. Stay With Me

The excitement of winning Worlds is overshadowed by the guilt of what Beca had done during her celebration. She can't remember Kommissar buying more than three rounds of shots and the emptiness of her wallet suggested their drunken engagement was not solely the German's fault. Beca wonders every day since who instigated the intimacy, who was truly to blame. But does it really matter? Beca was still involved, still lucid enough to know what she wanted, what she did.

And Jesse. Poor Jesse. Sweet Jesse. He had never given her a reason to behave so carelessly, not that there ever was a good reason to cheat. She never wanted to hurt him, never intended to leave him, but in one night, she had thrown away three years of a committed relationship for sex she can't even remember having. She'd never done anything so stupid while drunk before, and she has been drunk plenty of times. She had never been a sexual drunk either; she was usually giddy, full of giggles. It was freeing and innocent, but her own body had turned on her. She can't let it go.

But Beca tries to move on. Life continues, things seem steady. Seem. Emily has a mind made for lyrical compositions and partnering with her allows Beca to produce more quality music. Her coffee fetching days are behind her, though as a producer's assistant, she still finds herself with her hands full of cups on the busier days. At the very least, her talent is recognised, and with Emily's help she hopes to write her own songs eventually. For now, lingering in the background is good enough. Being a shadow is a start better than most.

These are things to focus on. Something to walk towards. But now that she has settled back into her small studio apartment in the outskirts of LA, she thinks of her night in Copenhagen. It was two weeks ago, but its prominence in her mind is still strong. Her life had been waiting for her during her trip out of the country, and she had hoped coming back to it would make things normal, help her forget. But she clings to the fractured memories. Kommissar's cardigan hangs in Beca's closet. She should have thrown it out, but she couldn't. Something made her keep it and hide it away. It's her secret, a reminder of her shame.

Beca is many things, but a liar isn't one of them. She will forgo the truth at times, but it always reveals itself. Her heart is too easily weighed by guilt, even with small things, and shifting the weight is always best, she knows. And this weight is massive. A monster. She can't keep it in. She has to tell Jesse what happened that night.

He visits her for a couple of days within the week and she returns the favour, but she hasn't let him sleep with her. She can't handle his touch. He knows something is wrong.

During a rather self-loathing evening, Beca finally allows him to peel off her clothes and he is gentle, as if testing her boundaries. He thinks she will recoil like so many times before. She doesn't. Being naked in front of him now makes her feel tainted and she deserves to feel that way, so she doesn't stop him. His fingers touch her cheek and she wants to cry. His lips brush her neck. A tender spot. Something happens. The anguish evaporates and a gasp hollows Beca's throat. Jesse's hands are suddenly so much softer, silk, and his smell is sweeter, cinnamon. So familiar. The caresses are a throwback and Beca knows that she only tumbles over the edge because she feels the ghost of Kommissar touching her. It is unfair.

In the aftermath, Beca sprawls out and Jesse expels an impressed breath. It is never like that. It never will be again.

"I need to tell you something, Jesse," Beca says abruptly. The buzz in her body is gone and she only feels shame. "You may hate me for it," she adds, covering her eyes with her hands, digging her palms into the sockets. If only she could push out the memories. They are fresh now, most of them. That night is becoming clearer to her and she wishes she could forget again.

"I doubt that." He chuckles, but soon realises Beca isn't just being melodramatic when she lowers her hands and there are tears. This sobers him. "What is it?" he asks, wiping her cheeks with a tenderness Beca doesn't deserve. He doesn't see Beca cry. She usually finds a place to cry alone if she ever has the urge. This is bad.

"I slept with someone in Copenhagen." It tumbles out without warning, without cushioning. There it is, severe and ugly. A truth Beca hadn't thought she would admit so readily and a truth Jesse had never expected to hear.

"What?" He cannot comprehend it.

"I got wicked drunk, like, beyond wasted, and I just woke up next to them. I don't know how it happened. It just... did." Beca sobs now. She's so stupid, so guilty. She waits for the oncoming outburst.

"And right now seemed like a good time to tell me? Right after we..." He stops and gets out of Beca's bed and begins collecting his clothes. There is no outburst, but this is worse. His silence is more unbearable. She hates herself. She attempts to speak, apologise further, but she knows Jesse needs time to think about it. He needs to sit down and have his favourite movies lined up, serving as background noise while he processes everything.

She lets him go.

The door closing is a sound Beca never found sad before, but tonight it seems to open up something inside of her and it is painful. A chasm.

Beca grabs her phone, wishing to call Chloe and find some semblance of comfort. Her best friend will know what to do and what to say, make it hurt less.

What Beca doesn't expect to see is a text from an unknown number. Its area code is unfamiliar. She opens the message without thought and she finds it is yet another thing she regrets.

 _I can't stop thinking of you._


	3. V for Valeska

Beca has been given a distraction, something she can fold around herself. There will be no room for self-pity, no room for her to absently call Jesse just to check if he will pick up this time. She has a responsibility. It might actually be a very important step up the ladder of her career. The ladder is dauntingly tall, but she has to _move_. There is no room for her to ruin her first opportunity to advance. No room to wallow.

Beca has been given the reigns. She is to solely produce an album. Her choices will be reviewed, of course, but her word will actually be considered, likely implemented, and that is amazing. There are a few artists Beca recalls her boss mentioning that could end up under her wing and she can't wait to prove herself. She wears her nicest jeans, coupled with what she believes to be a smart-looking blazer and she holds her head high, confident in her ability to do her job, the job she has always dreamed of doing.

She enters the studio and her boss is in the middle of a conversation, but he cuts it off abruptly and stalks towards her. He is an eccentric man and Beca isn't sure whether to be amused by his mannerisms or afraid. He removes the sunglasses that seemingly always sit atop his pointed nose. "Beca," he greets and she is thankful he had stopped getting her name wrong. "I've found your clients; they're a cappella. You've mentioned enough times for it to become a headache that you're a world champion, so I expect that since you know what you're dealing with, you won't screw this up." Something in his tone makes Beca feel as if some part of him hasn't got much faith in her. Countless disappointments have made him cynical.

She doesn't let it dampen her confidence. "That's great! Awesome. Who are they?"

"Go see for yourself; they're already here. Studio six. See what they want to do, get some demos, turn them into something that isn't terrible and put them on my desk by the end of the day. Go. Now."

Beca wastes no time in turning and hurrying to the correct recording booth. Her boss is not a patient person and she hopes he appreciates her readiness to dive right into the unknown. He has pushed her into new territory from the beginning and although he is an odd man, a frustrated man, he doesn't let Beca's talent fester. He tries to encourage her originality and in such a fickle industry, Beca is grateful for the chances she is given.

Determination pumps through her and Beca enters the studio and sees the tech guy setting up, asking for voice checks. She walks up behind him excitedly. She doesn't find it curious that her clients are in the largest recording booth the place has on hand and she wishes she had stopped to consider what it may have meant.

Das Sound Machine are in the recording booth, fronted by Kommissar, who stands in profile, saying something to the other members with a ferocity that makes Beca's breath catch. Her voice booms through the speakers in rough German. Beca's limited knowledge of the language only allows her to understand a minor portion of what is being said. It sounds like a stern pep talk.

She thinks of going to her boss and saying she can't do this, but he won't take it lightly. She may never be given a chance again if she turns this down. It is her first job outside of Emily. She needs this. She can't back out. But she wants to. She really, really wants to.

She adjusts her blazer and runs a hand through her hair, anxiety aggressively prickling in her stomach. She walks to the booth's door, hesitating when her hand touches the handle. Can she do this? Actually face her?

Beca enters and everyone turns.

She avoids Kommissar's gaze, but she can still feel the weight of it. She lifts a hand in a partial wave and says, "Hey, guys. I'm Beca. But, I guess you know that..." The cold stares she meets force her to shift uncomfortably. Kommissar is not the only one she has to worry about, it seems. "I'll be producing your first album."

"Little mouse," the tallest man among them coos. The second in command. He is grinning as he approaches. She can't remember his name. He holds out his hand and she shakes it. "I'm Pieter. You may want to write down names. We are many. Although, you already know Kommissar." Something in the way he says it makes Beca think he has an idea just how well she knows the German woman. This unsettles her further.

"I'll get on that," she dismisses. "Today, I need you to do a rough set. You guys are actually experienced, which is good, but live performances are one thing and selling an album is another, especially since you're doing covers. Copyright infringements can be an absolute bitch, so you'll be in for a lot of potential song changes. Have you released anything in Germany before?"

"Straight to business? No hugs and kisses? A shame," Pieter says, chuckling. Beca risks a glance at Kommissar. Her expression is blank, withholding. She watches Beca with an intensity that gives the woman a chill. Keeping her eyes on Pieter is much safer. "But ja, this is our first official album. We decided dominating the American charts would be a nice start. The pigs run the music industry, so we must tolerate this country for a time. Lucky you, ja?"

"Yeah. Lucky me. Let's start, then." Beca leaves the room, her legs like lead and her cheeks on fire. It is too much. She perches in front of the studio's computer, the audio mixing software already colouring the screen. Without being able to add her own layovers her task will be far more laborious. She will have to consult with the group regularly and propose adjustments. They seem proud. Stubborn. She is already tired.

DSM are painfully talented, Beca knows. Their set is impressive, but after months of tailing her boss, quietly absorbing his advice, she has a more attuned ear. She can think of ways to, make DSM better, make them successful, even more so. She has the advantage of knowing what America likes to hear.

When they finish recording, Beca is surprised. They had accepted most of her suggestions without argument. Anyone who had attempted to talk back was met with a sharp look from Kommissar and that silenced them immediately. Songs had been changed, but by the end, Beca had two solid demos. If her boss approves, she believes she can have this album finished soon. It will benefit both her career and her sanity.

She turns on the microphone. "Thanks a lot, everyone. That's it for today. I'll be in contact." Short and sweet, oozing indifferent professionalism, Beca thinks. She hopes she comes off as aloof as she pretends to be.

The recording booth empties and Beca nods at the departing group, headphones on. She has to listen to the sets again. DSM are close to immaculate in so many categories, and this makes things a little easier for her. There are times when the studio takes in fresh talent and they are close to unbearable. Artists are bad at taking suggestions, she has come to learn.

Beca plays the first song, Kommissar's voice smooth in her ears. She sighs. She had tried to suppress her memories, make it right with Jesse. He has to speak to her eventually and being nose-deep in work will help time pass, but with the lurking temptress alongside her, Beca fears what will happen.

A hand touches her shoulder and she jumps slightly, thinking it's her boss. She slips off the headphones and swivels in her chair and there is Kommissar, as tall and perfect as Beca remembers.

"Hello," she says, a smile flickering across her face, possibly in response to Beca's terrified expression.

Beca clears her throat, wanting to stand. She feels very small in her seat. Kommissar towers and Beca shrinks. It has been that way from the start.

"H-hey. How've you been? You were amazing today." She bites her tongue, annoyed that even after three months she struggles to filter what she says in this woman's presence.

"I am aware. I have been fine, but I cannot say I was expecting to see you here. At all. It is almost like..." She considers the word for a moment, eyes squinting in concentration. Her smile extends as she settles on: "serendipity." She looks at Beca as if she is a miracle and it makes hating her so much more difficult.

"Dude, I've always wanted to be a music producer and this is a highly-regarded studio in LA. I can't imagine where else DSM would go, so you being here is... it's not totally crazy." Beca can almost taste the lie. This doesn't seem real and she knows Kommissar is just more upfront about acknowledging that fact.

"You look good." Beca startles, face burning as Kommissar's gaze sweeps over her body. "Cute."

"Flirting with your producer is not a good idea, Kommissar," Beca says firmly, finally standing. She will not be tempted. She has to be strong, assertive.

"Valeska."

"What?"

"It is my name," she answers and Beca swallows.

"Well, it's as intimidating as I thought it'd be."

Her lips tip into a smirk. "You find me intimidating?"

"Of course I do. I mean, look at you! And look at me! I could fit in your pocket!"

Valeska's gaze is heated and she leans close, hands brushing Beca's wrists. "That can be arranged."

Beca quickly steps back, legs bumping her chair. It falls and she clumsily pulls it upright again, cursing. She turns on Valeska. "Not a chance. You're beautiful and talented and smell amazing, but I am not going to sleep with a client and I... I'm not interested in a fling."

"It was simply a joke, mouse."

Beca may dislike the nickname, but finds it is appropriate, too. She often feels like a tiny, trapped animal whenever Valeska is near her and she becomes weak in every possible way. Easy prey.

"I would like things to be amicable between us. It will make working together easier, ja? Perhaps you can show me around LA, Beca?" The sound of her name is remarkable. She remembers when it was said repeatedly in rapid succession. She wishes she could forget that particular memory. But, of course, she can't.

Beca has to say no. This woman is a snake, dangerous and predatory. She had tempted Beca into sleeping with her and she may have lost Jesse for good because of it. Keep it professional and casual, keep the distance. These are the reasonable responses. Decline and leave.

"Okay."


	4. She Wants To Know

**Sorry for the delay, friends. I'm a little stuck with where I want to go with this story and I'm still grieving over the last episode of Life is Strange, so crying all the time is my priority.**

* * *

Beca has to cancel. She can't go out with Valeska. She has the viper's number and a good reason to stay in the safety of her home: work. She's busy. She has a job. It comes home with her. She can't waste time on dates. Date? Is it a date?

Beca stares at her reflection and decides a dress might be too much. She can't remember where she even got this dress from. Maybe Chloe had snuck it into her closet. She doesn't want to seem eager to impress the German, even though part of her wants to. She wants be intimidating, too. She's a rank down from being a producer. Shit, to DSM, she is a producer. She needs respect. There's power to her status. They aren't rivals, but Beca still feels challenged. If she doesn't turn up, it's the same as accepting defeat. This is how she convinces herself to go.

The eyeliner smudges. She over-applies. Her shirt has a crease. Her knee has a scab. She's a wreck. The day is a disaster. She can't go outside into the blinding day where a beautiful woman just as blinding awaits her. Valeska's hair is the sun and her eyes are the sky and she's cosmic in her beauty and Beca imagines what she looks like when dressed casually. Probably perfect. Definitely perfect; facing her is a crime.

Beca, the walking wreck, leaves her home in a rush, close to being late. She almost walks right past Valeska in her hurry, but a soft hand stops her. She is paralysed by the touch and when she sees the woman, she finds her chest vibrating with the violent drumming of her heart. Breaths enter deep and leave shallow.

"You are a god among men," Beca says, flinching shortly after. So stupid. "I mean, hi."

Valeska looks unlike she ever has. Light makeup. Loose hair. Comfortable clothes. Easy smile. She is not DSM's leader today; she is a lurking predator, camouflaged by her simplicity.

"Hi."

The single word is striking and Beca is already flustered. She rambles. "I know you wanted me to play escort, but work has kept me so swamped I just haven't had time to properly explore LA. It's big. People bump into you. Parking costs an arm and a leg. I usually catch a bus, or a cab here-"

"Not to worry, I have a car." Valeska nods to the vehicle parked behind her. She had met Beca at a Starbucks and she must've come early to get a spot right outside it. She was more than prompt. Great.

Beca glances at the car. Of course she has a Porsche. Of course it's as silver as her tongue. It glistens in the daylight, smooth and dangerous.

"Oh, shit. Nice. Very nice."

Valeska buys Beca coffee and doesn't mind her drinking it in the car. The seats cradle Beca and the car must be a rental, or borrowed, something, but it already smells like Valeska and Beca finds she would be happy to remain in this very seat for the rest of the day.

"I have heard of many museums here. All of them sound fascinating, and since you have so kindly agreed to, as you say, "escort" me, you may pick one to go to."

"Oh, dude, they run at least a hundred bucks per person for entry. My pockets aren't exactly lined with gold."

"Nonsense. It's my treat." Valeska holds out her phone, already displaying a list of potential museums. "Pick."

Beca takes the phone and scrolls through her options. This is a red flag. Valeska doesn't want to sightsee. She wants to take Beca to one specific place. She saw the truth behind the invitation the moment it was offered. She had still accepted. Her finger pauses over the screen and she breathes a laugh, clicking on it. She hands the phone back to Valeska and the woman starts the engine, smirking.

"We did meet at a car show," Beca supplies, following the stretch of Valeska's arm as she places her phone in its windscreen holster, the GPS highlighting their route. Her arms are firm, subtle strength hidden under the softest skin.

"You are a sentimentalist," she says and pulls into the swelling LA traffic.

* * *

They arrive at the Automotive Museum and Beca launches out of the car.

"I've never actually been here but I've heard it's awesome! You'll thank me so hard after this."

"I happen to be a car enthusiast, little mouse. You picked well."

The tour of the museum is informative, but Beca finds she is attracted to the scattered oddities more than the actual information regarding them. She is delighted by the ridiculous Hotwheels collection, impressed by impossible-to-drive vehicles and stops short when she spots the Batmobile.

"I can't believe this is here!"

"You like the Batman?"

"Not exactly. A...friend does." Beca thinks she shouldn't be doing this. If the nature of the outing is unclear, she shouldn't be here. It is dishonest. It doesn't feel casual enough to hold no meaning. Valeska paid a rather hefty amount just for the two of them to do something together. It borders on a date. There's no denying it. That is not what Beca wants. But she had just diminished Jesse's place in her life. She hid him. Also undeniable.

"Here, I will take a picture of you with it. Show your friend, make them jelly."

Beca can't disagree. For such an intimidating woman, she says silly things. Saying no to her is hard, that has been established.

Beca poses ridiculously and the German snaps a few pictures, but then steps forward, bringing Beca under her arm, taking a photo of them both.

When Beca sees the photo, she is not surprised to find she looks flustered, startled. But Valeska is smiling like she had been all day. She looks untouched, like anything they had done no longer matters and she is there to only have a bit of fun. It makes Beca think she's overanalysing the entire day. Valeska has been nothing but kind, made no inappropriate comment or gesture. Maybe she really does just want to be friends.

They explore more of the museum and have a late lunch and Beca can't believe how relaxed everything has been. She is still a mess, still tripping over her words, but Valeska just grins at the accidental compliments and moves on. She is playful, that is unexpected. This side to her charms Beca and when they finally leave the museum, she wishes she knew how to tell Valeska how much fun she had without sounding too desperate to do it all again. But she does want to do it again. Against her better judgement.

Sooner than Beca would've liked, the car stops outside her small apartment building.

"Thanks for today," she says, trying to think of what else to add without embarrassing herself. But her mind collapses, incapable of functioning when she feels soft lips brush her cheek.

"I hope you enjoyed yourself as much as I did, Beca." Her name is whispered, the breath on her ear hot. "See you at work."

Beca thoughtlessly gets out of the car, hand raised pathetically as Valeska drives away.

That was definitely a date.


End file.
